aj_crawley | (no subject)

(I am making them into an endless necklace)
Crowley gives him a raised eyebrow in return, all the more effective for his current height advantage.

"Was that a hint?"

"Not at all," he says, and it seems that he honestly - somehow - had not even considered it.

"I only meant that it's a flexible sort of schedule," he adds, sheepish. The hand not occupied with the saucer and cup plays unconsciously with the edge of the blanket.

"Well," he says, settling back against the pillows again, long and deliberately lazy.

His coffee is balanced on his stomach, hands curled around the mug like - like a point of reference.

"Maybe I should check back in ten minutes."

"Ten minutes," he repeats. "We'll have drunk these by then, and I'd hate to spill tea and coffee in your bed in a fit of spontaneity."

He's still very close to Crowley. Gradually, his hand gravitates from the blankets between them to just above Crowley's hip.

"It's not the sort of cleaning up you want to be doing afterwards," Crowley concedes. Pause. "Or during."

His eyes skim down to Aziraphael's hand on his hip, and rest there for a second; two.

Then Crowley shifts a little bit, untangles one hand from the other, and slides his arm between Aziraphael and the headboard, jumper rucking up above his wrist.

"I'm sure it isn't," he says, "besides being the waste of a nice, hot cup of - of something."

When Crowley moves his arm, Aziraphael's smile reappears and he slides into the crook of the demon's arm. His head tilts once again onto Crowley's shoulder (slightly less bony from this angle), his eyes close, and he takes a deep and contented breath, expelling it with a sigh.

He's struck, suddenly, by the sheer, giant absurdity of it. Of the situation. An angel curling up close to a demon without any thought of a righteous smiting (except euphemistically, maybe), and a demon not only permitting it but inviting it, for Somebody's sake, without a single ulterior motive except that Aziraphael is warm and heavy and he smells good, and he won't look at Crowley's face for a bit.

It isn't natural.

(His arm tightens a little bit, instinctively.)

It's no wonder Aziraphael -

"Well," Crowley says. "You're the master strategist, today. You've ten minutes to put your mind to it."

Up comes the coffee mug, and he breathes in a deep lungful of steam before taking his first sip.

"I expect a detailed proposal."

His brows lift slightly (though the smile at his mouth doesn't fade) and his eyes don't open so much as a crack as he turns his face farther into Crowley's neck.

"I'm not much of a master strategist just at the moment," he says, though with his mouth against warm skin it comes out more as, "'M nmuh musterstrast mmmm momen."

The teacup, which has held up through all this with unerring precision, tilts slightly with the slight lopsidedness of its saucer.

"Pity," Crowley says, daring Aziraphael's mug to tip over with a sharply-raised eyebrow. "I do love hearing a well-considered plan of action."

The mug, clearly knowing what's good for it, straightens out of the danger zone. Aziraphael draws a long breath in before turning his head just enough so that his words are somewhat less muffled.

"I'll see what I can come up with, then."

Crowley's in the middle of another grateful sip of coffee; he waits a moment, savouring the way the heat slips over his tongue and down his throat, settling finally somewhere between ribcage and belly, before replying.

"Good," he says evenly. "Eight minutes."

"Mm hmm," he agrees, languid. The hand at Crowley's hip is getting a bit squashed, so he worms it out from between them and eases it behind the demon's back instead. Much better. He raises his cup again to take a sip and then rests his head on Crowley's shoulder once more.

It's going to be difficult to think of something irresistible to do if it involves moving away from this position.

This is not really having the desired effect. Not from the sound of it, anyway.

Carefully smoothing out the crease between his eyebrows, Crowley takes another drink of coffee and then says:

"I hope I hear wheels turning inside that fusty head of yours."

"Fusty," he repeats, indignant. That, at least, seems to pull him out of the sleepy, burrowing state he'd been sinking into. He raises his head to glare muzzily at Crowley.

"My head is not fusty-smelling, whatever you might believe. For all you know it could be rosemary and cedar in there."

The idea pleases him, judging by the softening behind his eyes, and the hand at Crowley's back slides a little farther along so that the fingers tighten possessively on his other hip.

"For all I know."

He shouldn't have spoken up again. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Still, maybe it's better than nothing.

"Well, so long as it's not going back to sleep, it can be anything it likes."

"It isn't going back to sleep; six minutes isn't nearly enough time for a nap," he says somewhat peevishly, though the true annoyance in his voice, never very strong, is already beginning to fade.

"Maybe I should leave you to plan in peace?"

"Certainly not," he says quickly, and the hand at Crowley's hip tightens further.

"I'm afraid you're going to be required for every part of this plan. Er, including the planning part," he adds.

"I suppose that's good to know."

It's meant to sound teasing - and for the most part, it does.

They say that the best lies always contain a grain of fact - so naturally, it should follow that the very best lies of all are the ones that are also completely true.

(And Crowley, it's fair to say, is a pretty good liar.)

"Really, the most difficult part of all this is the bit where I have to wait another six minutes. I'd rather not imagine how frustrating it would be if I had to chase you all over the house as well."

A few seconds pass in silence.

"Perhaps five minutes."

Perhaps Aziraphael can feel it: a half-grin, pressed against the top of the angel's head.

"I feel as though you're missing the point here."

"Perhaps I'm simply making a different point," he suggests. "One about--" he pauses to think-- "the constraints of time, or something equally cryptic and profound."

"What happened to angelic patience? Spending hours in profound contemplation of the infinite, and that."

"The infinite, perhaps, but angelic patience simply isn't valid where you're concerned, my dear."

He reaches up to push Crowley's hair back from his forehead, which seems to support his point.

He sniffs, feigning offense.

"Well, if you're not going to give this its due, then maybe we should wait and do it another time."